a h li l gibr a n (1883–1931), bestselling
author and spiritual guide, was a man in search
of himself and his place in the world; he wrote
from longing and created beauty.
Gibran was a writer and painter, based in the USA,
and his life was his material. An immigrant from Lebanon at the beginning of the twentieth century, he wrote
with one eye on his homeland – and with a restless questioning spirit. As one of his teachers records, “he had an
impetuous soul, a rebellious mind and an eye mocking
everything it sees.”
Kahlil was born into a Christian Maronite family in
Bsharri, set in the mountainous regions of North Lebanon; and under control of the Ottoman empire. (He
fought for Syrian nationalism all his life.) We hear of a
solitary and thoughtful child, who delighted in his natural surroundings. Growing up in poverty, his only education was the visit of the priest, until troubled family circumstances led to upheaval and relocation to the
USA – without his father. Here Gibran experienced loss.
His sister, half-brother and mother died before he was
twenty. He wrote: “Ever has it been, that love knows not
its own depth until the hour of separation.” But here also
he experienced patronage from a succession of motherﬁgures who were to help nurture his life as an artist and
writer, introducing him to the Boston literary circles.
Gibran would never ﬁt in. He described himself as
a “fragment”, and as one always wondering where he
belonged in the world. “The human heart cries out for
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hope,” he wrote. “The human soul implores us for deliverance. But we do not heed their cries, for we neither
hear nor understand. But the man who hears and understands we call mad, and ﬂee from him.” The madman was a ﬁgure who haunted Gibran throughout his
life; naked, vulnerable and without a mask for protection
against the destructive powers around him. “Doubt is a
pain too lonely to know that faith is his twin brother,” he
wrote – perhaps as much to reassure himself as others.
Kahlil Gibran wished to write small books that could
be read in one sitting and carried in the pocket. Between
1918 and 1926 he wrote four such books, and these were
his ﬁrst in English: The Madman (1918); The Forerunner
(1920); Sand and Foam (1926) and The Prophet (1923).
The ﬁrst three are collections of parables and aphorisms,
which in true Eastern style draw on a world of kings, hermits, saints, slaves, deserts, animals that talk and wind
that laughs. The Prophet, which was to become enduringly popular, is diﬀerent; a prose piece which is longer
and partly auto-biographical. In the story, a young man
prepares to leave for his homeland; but ﬁrst he must say
goodbye to those he has lived amongst for the previous
twelve years. The book is his farewell speech, touching
on love, friendship, children, joy, sorrow and much else
besides. Summing up the message of the book, Gibran
said this: “The whole prophet is saying one thing: ‘You
are far far greater than you know – and all is well.’”
Only in his private letters do we get a glimpse of the
man for whom all was not well. Fiercely individual, he
found no enduring rest in any relationship; and ever dismissive of authority, he was a uniﬁer in the face of exclusive religious claims. “I love you when you bow in your
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mosque; kneel in your temple; pray in your church. For
you and I are sons of one religion, and it is the spirit.”
Often in physical pain from a childhood accident,
and suﬀering increasingly from anxiety, Gibran ﬁrst became dependent on alcohol and was then destroyed by
it, dying at the age of 48. Fittingly for a man who lived
in one country but who always looked back to another,
there are memorials to him both in Boston, Washington
D.C. and in Bsharri, where he was ﬁnally buried, and to
whose people he gave the proceeds of his books – so that
in future, other Syrians would not have to emigrate due
to poverty, as once he had been forced to do.
“Half of what I say is meaningless,” he wrote. “But I
say it so that the other half may reach you.” Through Gibran’s writing, much has reached many.
simon parke 2009

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i a m for e v er walking upon these shores, betwixt the sand and the foam. The high tide will erase my
footprints, and the wind will blow away the foam. But
the sea and the shore will remain. Forever.
once i filled my hand with mist. Then I opened
it and lo, the mist was a worm. And I closed and opened
my hand again, and behold there was a bird. And again
I closed and opened my hand, and in its hollow stood a
man with a sad face, turned upward. And again I closed
my hand, and when I opened it there was naught but
mist. But I heard a song of exceeding sweetness.

it wa s bu t yesterday I thought myself a fragment
quivering without rhythm in the sphere of life. Now I
know that I am the sphere, and all life in rhythmic fragments moves within me.

th ey say to m e in their awakening, “You and
the world you live in are but a grain of sand upon the inﬁnite shore of an inﬁnite sea.” And in my dream I say to
them, “I am the inﬁnite sea, and all worlds are but grains
of sand upon my shore.”

on ly once h av e i been made mute. It was
when a man asked me, “Who are you?”

the first thought of God was an angel. The
ﬁrst word of God was a man.

the wind in the forest gave us words. Now how can we
express the ancient of days in us with only the sounds of
our yesterdays?

th e sphi n x spok e only once, and the Sphinx
said, â&#x20AC;&#x153;A grain of sand is a desert, and a desert is a grain
of sand; and now let us all be silent again.â&#x20AC;? I heard the
Sphinx, but I did not understand.

long did i li e in the dust of Egypt, silent and
unaware of the seasons. Then the sun gave me birth, and
I rose and walked upon the banks of the Nile, Singing
with the days and dreaming with the nights. And now
the sun threads upon me with a thousand feet that I may
lie again in the dust of Egypt. But behold a marvel and
a riddle! The very sun that gathered me cannot scatter
me. Still erect am I, and sure of foot do I walk upon the
banks of the Nile.

r em em br a nce is a form of meeting.
forgetf u ln ess is a form of freedom.
w e m ea su r e ti m e according to the movement
of countless suns; and they measure time by little machines in their little pockets. Now tell me, how could we
ever meet at the same place and the same time?

space is not space between the earth and
the sun to one who looks down from the windows of the
Milky Way.

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h u m a n it y is a r i v er of light running from
the ex-eternity to eternity.

do not the spirits who dwell in the ether
envy man his pain?

on m y way to the Holy City I met another pilgrim and I asked him, “Is this indeed the way to the Holy
City?” And he said, “Follow me, and you will reach the
Holy City in a day and a night.” And I followed him. And
we walked many days and many nights, yet we did not
reach the Holy City. And what was to my surprise he became angry with me because he had misled me.
m a k e m e, oh god , the prey of the lion, ere you
make the rabbit my prey.

on e m ay not reach the dawn save by the path of
the night.

m y house says to me, “Do not leave me, for here
dwells your past.” And the road says to me, “Come and
follow me, for I am your future.” And I say to both my
house and the road, “I have no past, nor have I a future.
If I stay here, there is a going in my staying; and if I go
there is a staying in my going. Only love and death will
change all things.”

sev en t i m es h av e I despised my soul: The
ﬁrst time when I saw her being meek that she might attain height. The second time when I saw her limping before the crippled. The third time when she was given to
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choose between the hard and the easy, and she chose the
easy. The fourth time when she committed a wrong, and
comforted herself that others also commit wrong. The
ďŹ fth time when she forbore for weakness, and attributed
her patience to strength. The sixth time when she despised the ugliness of a face, and knew not that it was
one of her own masks. And the seventh time when she
sang a song of praise, and deemed it a virtue.

how ca n i lose faith in the justice of life, when
the dreams of those who sleep upon feathers are not
more beautiful than the dreams of those who sleep upon
the earth? Strange, the desire for certain pleasures is a
part of my pain.

i a m ignor a n t of absolute truth. But I am humble before my ignorance and therein lies my honour and
my reward.

ther e is a space between manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s imagination
and manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s attainment that may only be traversed by his
longing.

pa r a dise is th er e , behind that door, in the
next room; but I have lost the key. Perhaps I have only
mislaid it.

you a r e bli n d and I am deaf and dumb, so let us
touch hands and understand.

th e sign ifica nce of man is not in what he attains, but rather in what he longs to attain.
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som e of us are like ink and some like paper. And
if it were not for the blackness of some of us, some of us
would be dumb; and if it were not for the whiteness of
some of us, some of us would be blind.
gi v e m e a n ea r and I will give you a voice.
ou r m i n d is a sponge; our heart is a stream. Is it
not strange that most of us choose sucking rather than
running?

w h en you long for blessings that you may not
name, and when you grieve knowing not the cause, then
indeed you are growing with all things that grow, and
rising toward your greater self.

w h en on e is drunk with a vision, he deems his
faint expression of it the very wine.

you dri n k w i n e that you may be intoxicated;
and I drink that it may sober me from that other wine.

w h en m y c u p is empty I resign myself to its emptiness; but when it is half full I resent its half-fullness.

the rea lit y of the other person is not in what
he reveals to you, but in what he cannot reveal to you.
Therefore, if you would understand him, listen not to
what he says but rather to what he does not say.

h a lf of w h at I say is meaningless; but I say it so
that the other half may reach you.
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a sense of humour is a sense of proportion.
m y lon eli n ess wa s born when men praised
my talkative faults and blamed my silent virtues.

w h en life does not ﬁnd a singer to sing her
heart she produces a philosopher to speak her mind.

a truth is to be known always, to be uttered
sometimes.

th e r ea l in us is silent; the acquired is talkative.
the voice of life in me cannot reach the ear of life
in you; but let us talk that we may not feel lonely.

w h en t wo wom en talk they say nothing; when
one woman speaks she reveals all of life.
frogs m ay bellow louder than bulls, but they
cannot drag the plough in the ﬁeld nor turn the wheel
of the winepress, and of their skins you cannot make
shoes.

on ly the dum b envy the talkative.
if w i n t er shou ld say, “spring is in my heart,”
who would believe winter?

you would behold your image in all images. And should
you open your ears and listen; you would hear your own
voice in all voices.

it ta k es t wo of us to discover truth: one to utter
it and one to understand it.
though th e wav e of words is forever upon us,
yet our depth is forever silent.

m a n y a doctri n e is like a window pane. We
see truth through it but it divides us from truth.
now let us play hide and seek. Should you hide in
my heart it would not be diďŹ&#x192;cult to ďŹ nd you. But should
you hide behind your own shell, then it would be useless
for anyone to seek you. A woman may veil her face with
a smile.

how noble is the sad heart who would sing a joyous song with joyous hearts.

h e w ho wou ld understand a woman, or dissect genius, or solve the mystery of silence is the very
man who would wake from a beautiful dream to sit at a
breakfast table.
i wou ld wa lk with all those who walk. I would
not stand still to watch the procession passing by.

you ow e mor e than gold to him who serves you.
Give him of your heart or serve him.
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nay, w e h av e not lived in vain. Have they not
built towers of our bones?

let us not be particular and sectional. The poet’s
mind and the scorpion’s tail rise in glory from the same
earth.

ev ery dr agon gi v es birth to a St. George
who slays it.

trees a r e poems that the earth writes upon
the sky. We fell them down and turn them into paper
that we may record our emptiness.

shou ld you ca r e to write (and only the saints
know why you should) you must needs have knowledge and art and music – the knowledge of the music of
words, the art of being artless, and the magic of loving
your readers.
th ey dip th eir pens in our hearts and think
they are inspired.

shou ld a tr ee write its autobiography it would
not be unlike the history of a race.

poetry is not an opinion expressed. It is a song
that rises from a bleeding wound or a smiling mouth.

if i w er e to choose between the power of
writing a poem and the ecstasy of a poem unwritten, I
would choose the ecstasy. It is better poetry. But you and
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all my neighbours agree that I always choose badly.

words a r e tim eless . You should utter them
or write them with a knowledge of their timelessness.

a poet is a dethroned king sitting among the ashes of his palace trying to fashion an image out of the
ashes.

poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with
a dash of the dictionary.

i n va i n sh a ll a poet seek the mother of the
songs of his heart?

once i sa id to a poet, “We shall not know
your worth until you die.” And he answered saying, “Yes,
death is always the revealer. And if indeed you would
know my worth it is that I have more in my heart than
upon my tongue, and more in my desire than in my
hand.”

if you si ng of beau t y though alone in the
heart of the desert, you will have an audience.

poetry is w isdom that enchants the heart.
Wisdom is poetry that sings in the mind. If we could enchant man’s heart and at the same time sing in his mind,
then in truth he would live in the shadow of God.

i nspir ation w ill a lways sing; inspiration will never explain.
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w e oft en si ng lullabies to our children that we
ourselves may sleep.

a ll ou r words are but crumbs that fall down
from the feast of the mind.

thi n k i ng is always the stumbling stone to poetry.
a gr eat si nger is he who sings our silences.
how ca n you sing if your mouth be ﬁlled with
food? How shall your hand be raised in blessing if it is
ﬁlled with gold?
th ey say th e n ighti nga le pierces his
bosom with a thorn when he sings his love song. So do
we all. How else should we sing?
gen ius is bu t a robin’s song at the beginning of
a slow spring.

ev en the most winged spirit cannot escape
physical necessity.

a m a dm a n is not less a musician than you or myself; only the instrument on which he plays is a little out
of tune.
no longi ng remains unfulﬁlled.
th e song th at lies silent in the heart of a mother sings upon the lips of her child.
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i h av e n ev er agreed with my other self wholly.
The truth of the matter seems to lie between us.
you r oth er self is always sorry for you. But
your other self grows on sorrow; so all is well.

th er e is no struggle of soul and body save
in the minds of those whose souls are asleep and whose
bodies are out of tune.
w h en you r each the heart of life you shall ﬁnd
beauty in all things, even in the eyes that are blind to
beauty.

w e li v e on ly to discover beauty. All else is a
form of waiting.

sow a seed and the earth will yield you a ﬂower.
Dream your dream to the sky and it will bring you your
beloved.

the dev il di ed the very day you were born. Now
you do not have to go through hell to meet an angel.

m a n y a wom a n borrows a man’s heart; few possess it.

if you would possess you must not claim.
w h en a m a n ’s hand touches the hand of a woman they both touch the heart of eternity.

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lov e is th e veil between lover and lover.
ev ery m a n loves two women; the one is the creation of his imagination, and the other is not yet born.
m en w ho do not forgive women their little faults
will never enjoy their great virtues.

lov e th at does not renew itself every day becomes a habit and in turn a slavery.

lov ers em br ace th at which is between
them rather than each other.

lov e a n d doubt have never been on speaking
terms.

lov e is a word of light, written by a hand of
light, upon a page of light.

fri en dship is a lways a sweet responsibility, never an opportunity.

if you do not understand your friend under all conditions you will never understand him.

you r most r a di a n t garment is of the other
personâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s weaving; your most savoury meal is that which
you eat at the other personâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s table; your most comfortable bed is in the other personâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house. Now tell me, how
can you separate yourself from the other person?